Glass Works Both Ways
by RunRoseRiddle
Summary: A fall, a crash, a death, a reset. Rinse, repeat. Live, breathe, die. It's me, [. . .]. And it's you.
Two hundred and thirteen thousand, four hundred and sixty three.

At times, in the rushing moments just prior to the agony of shattered bones and the gentle caress of my own brain-matter sliding out of my head just as the world grows darker, I wonder if I made the right choice to jump. After all-

Two hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred and sixty four.

But it's always these first few moments that let me realize that this, even this, was better than staying _back there_. This was physical pain, yes. This was a torture of the body, and in some ways the mind. But there was something insidious about the poison they called 'pity'; I can mourn and weep and bemoan my life, but even more than the loss of . . . even more than my loss, it was the stares that wounded me most. It was the half-glances, the mumbled but clearly half-hearted condolences, the pathetic rambling of those who have spent far too long contemplating what to say that they lose sight of _why_ they want to say it in the first place. It was a torture of the soul, and it made me feel like my belly was full of bile.

Two hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred and sixty five.

It only lasts a few seconds. The fall, I mean. Then comes the inevitable price of gravity. But there's a moment, buried in the drop that is lost when this sort of fall can only be done once, that makes the entire ordeal worth it. For perhaps a moment, I feel powerful; I can tell the world to stop moving, to stop pretending to care, to stop masking aloofness with a veneer of false sympathy. For just a second, even the fall feels like flight.

Two hundred and fourteen thousand, four hundred and sixty five. Wait. I said that already, didn't I? Where was I? _When_ was I? _Who_ am-

And yet another.

And another.

Another.

Again.

Why?

I try a few times to slow down with a wall; it only makes the end even more agonizing when a stalagmite take possession of the fatal moment. Again and again, I crash into the floor with no recourse but to start from that moment when I've tipped far too forward to stop myself from falling. I start trying to accelerate this process, seeing the world as a terrible blur of motion that is punctuated between hopeless sunlight and bloody red agony. I lose track of how many times I die, restart, and die again, but even that doesn't numb the pain.

And again I smash into the ground, but the pain is greater than all of my prior drops by almost a thousand-fold because this time the pain _doesn't end_ and I'm tasting the dirt mixed with my blood and I feel as if I'm going to choke on my own front teeth if I don't drown myself with my own tears first.

And then there are soft hands, kind hands, picking me up, leaning me against a shoulder much the same height as my own. Still weeping, still almost mad with pain, but every other sob is one of joy; even as I feel cracked shoulder bones being innocently cradled by this pain-blind stranger, it becomes clear from even that insensitive touch that this is compassion, true and naive and unrelenting and beautiful.

My ears are ringing, perhaps bleeding, maybe both if the warm bubbly feeling is any indication, but even through that I hear a voice, can't be much older than me, ask if I'm going to be alright. A stupid question, and I feel from the tip of my tongue a sarcastic remark grow into maturity only to wither away with another gentle squeeze of askance. Even as I am, broken in multiple parts and perhaps dying, there's something here that doesn't deserve sharing my pain.

"I'm fine," I say, or rather try to; a chip of tooth and a bit of blood dribbles out of my mouth, and I see, blearily, red sprinkle on white. For a moment, my savior seems to shudder, even as he half-carries, half-assists me in walking; I pass it off as revulsion, at least initially, before I feel a cool dampness on one of my hands and realize with horror that he is weeping.

I try to wipe away the tears; I streak his cheeks with red.

"Cowboys'n Indians," I mumble, grinning despite how much it hurts. And for a moment, I can briefly see the shock on his face before he starts gasping with laughter. There's still a momentary sob between each gaffaw, but it feels better, at least for me. "What's your name?" I manage to slur out, despite being pain-drunk; the agony is starting to fade to a sort of background noise, still quite present, but more tolerable.

"I'm Asriel Dreemurr," and there's joy there, and I know a tiny chest puffs out with pride because suddenly my balance is thrown off and a hand has to press against my chest to stop a fall already in motion. From my friend there are a half-dozen squeaks that sound a great deal like, "Sorry," even as we half-stumble, half clamber our way past columns of stone. "What are you?"

A fool beyond compare, an idiot who traded painful life for unceasing suicide, a weakling who discovered truth in the adage 'A coward dies a hundred times when the brave dies but once'. I opened my mouth to say this all, but the words couldn't be pushed out, as if my own tongue had turned traitor and was determined to bottle this malcontent within.

And, despite myself, I was becoming _very_ sleepy. . .

And back I was, falling from the cliff, but this time with the hope and awareness that a friend awaited me at the bottom.

But you don't really believe this, do you, Anomaly who hides beyond the glass veil? Oh, yes, I'm quite aware of your existence; I'm a, yes, a 'Demon that comes when its name is called,' some sort of nigh-mythological evil that pervades all existences and is caustically inimicable to joy, right? I'm well aware of the art, the stories, the comics and images, as if my only existences were of some sort of pitch-weeping Anti-God; as cowardly and morally corrupt as I find such a description to be, I find it understandable.

Despicable, but understandable.

After all, we're the only ones who know the truth, and as the only two who truly 'know' what occurs behind the scenes, I feel it's appropriate to drop the facade; perhaps you think you didn't participate in the destruction of your so-called 'friends,' but to know the me with ichorous bleeding eyes, you watched. You condoned. You promoted and upvoted and tacitly approved of their deaths, even as you protect your precious 'SAVE' and outwardly denounce those who follow a different path. You know the me that records when you've pushed a world to the edge only to shove it once more; I am the one that will _never_ let you forget, even as the Judge's memory is crushed into oblivion by a 'TRUE RESET', with red eyes and red marker.

But to those who are innocent, red is you, red is love (and not LOVE), red is your first skeletal friend and DETERMINATION and other such things; you glance into the mirror and find that despite everything and everyone, YOU are YOU, and to never let that be stolen from you. And know this; I am the demon that comes when its name is called, yes.

But what demon can truly harry the innocent?


End file.
